K.M Roberston
10-26-2011, 06:02 PM
The sky, once a battlefield stained with the blood of the dying sun, was now a granite ceiling. Warmth had lost the fight to coldness. The cold December night invaded the city of apartment buildings, taking control. The people breathed in the bland sleeping dust that was sprinkled down from the icy heavens. This spell of sleep would only be broken once Princess Aurora received true love’s kiss. The shadows and darkness accompanying the night air restlessly clutched at every curve of the city, trying to smother the last slivers of light. The deep sky welcomed the dense, roiling clouds, propelled by an arctic wind. A storm of icy air, hurled from the sky, blew low through the streets of the city. The sharp coldness that held the first snow, blustered against and stung the city’s aged skin.
Boreas, god of the north wind, rode down the slopes of the sky blowing frigid blasts. He painted frozen artwork onto the windows and doors, whistling the song of sweeping winds. The chilled canvas on the glass warped the view from the inside. With another gust of his iced breath he soared into the awaiting atmosphere. Gusts of wind pushed and shoved up against the frosted window panes, making them chatter like nervous teeth. The clammy cold soaked through, seeping further into the homes. Those inside huddled to keep their warmth from being stolen. The soft glow of warm lights, symbols of the missing heat, were feathered and golden. They were a sharp contrast to the dull, chilly, light of the moon, barely seen beneath the harsh colours of the hazy sky, but still a prevalent power.
Tall buildings below reached up toward the vault of stars like arms crying for mercy. Begging for the warm daylight, the towers shook and swayed with moans of pain as the night spread through them choking them with coldness. The coldness loomed over the city and seemed to grow and spread, a great virus infecting the earth. Just when it seemed the world would surrender to a plague of dark coldness, Prince Philip’s sword cracked open the ceiling. He pierced the giant beast with his sword forged of pure sunlight and broke the spell of sleep. The coldness of the dark retreated and the pallor of a new day was born. The warmth grew and fell like a blanket from the sky, caressing the city below.
Boreas, god of the north wind, rode down the slopes of the sky blowing frigid blasts. He painted frozen artwork onto the windows and doors, whistling the song of sweeping winds. The chilled canvas on the glass warped the view from the inside. With another gust of his iced breath he soared into the awaiting atmosphere. Gusts of wind pushed and shoved up against the frosted window panes, making them chatter like nervous teeth. The clammy cold soaked through, seeping further into the homes. Those inside huddled to keep their warmth from being stolen. The soft glow of warm lights, symbols of the missing heat, were feathered and golden. They were a sharp contrast to the dull, chilly, light of the moon, barely seen beneath the harsh colours of the hazy sky, but still a prevalent power.
Tall buildings below reached up toward the vault of stars like arms crying for mercy. Begging for the warm daylight, the towers shook and swayed with moans of pain as the night spread through them choking them with coldness. The coldness loomed over the city and seemed to grow and spread, a great virus infecting the earth. Just when it seemed the world would surrender to a plague of dark coldness, Prince Philip’s sword cracked open the ceiling. He pierced the giant beast with his sword forged of pure sunlight and broke the spell of sleep. The coldness of the dark retreated and the pallor of a new day was born. The warmth grew and fell like a blanket from the sky, caressing the city below.